Happy Sunday! I hope you're all having a great weekend so far :)
Yeahhhhh... I don't really have much to say about this chapter, besides that I enjoyed writing it far too much and that I'm sorry in advance for all the shit that goes down. At least you know that the story has an eventual happy ending?
As always, huge thank you to my beta - silver-doe287 - for editing the chapter and all her wonderful suggestions!
Enjoy! :)
There were few things in life that were so beautiful that they hurt: the silence of the night after a storm, a lone tree bent against the weight of the sky, fireflies blinking in the dark, and droplets dancing down foggy windows as rain pattered against the glass. And then there was this – whatever this was.
Zack leaned against the pasture's corral fence. His brimmed hat shaded his eyes, a single stalk of wheat was held firm between his teeth, and his tongue played with the thin stem as he squinted towards the grassland. The cattle were clustered together in the center of the field. Their dark shadows were stunted beneath the midday sun, and their heads were bowed against the light as they grazed on dry grass. Zack felt a twinge in his chest as he watched them. The twinge felt something like a pebble thrown against a window, or maybe a clod of dirt being kicked down a dusty road.
It felt like loss.
It even felt a little bit like grief, but that was silly, wasn't it? Grief. He scoffed at the word. He had raised the cattle knowing full-well that they were going to be sold one day; it was why they were called the herd, the livestock, and not the pets.
And yet here he was, with his back turned against the town and his eyes resting on the herd that he had raised since their birth. The land around his home would seem a little emptier without them lumbering about. His days would be a little emptier, too. It made him wonder how he would go about filling the acres, the weeks, the hours strung together in a day.
He fiddled with the straw between his teeth, and wondered: Should he do what Cloud did, and grow seasonal crops? Would he want to raise more livestock? Or could he take a break from the rancher's life and do something different, something that paid a little more?
I could be a Ranger again.
The thought brushed against his mind, both unexpected and yet not, like a guest that had gotten lost on the road but had finally arrived in the dead of night. He settled against the fence post. There was no denying that he missed the Ranger lifestyle. It fit him as easily as a well-worn saddle or a familiar leather glove; it was something that he knew how to do, and it was something that he was good at. He could track fugitives across unforgiving landscapes. He could protect a developing homestead from thieves and monsters. He could shoot a tin can from forty paces away, and then shoot it again when it snapped back from the bullet.
Being a land-owning, ranch-working, decent husband was far more difficult than all of that. Then to be a father… now that was still something else entirely. Fatherhood was a term so massive, so encompassing, so daunting that he still couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. It was futile to even try. Picturing himself as a father was like trying to visualize the night sky using only a telescope, like trying to see heaven with only a black book, like trying to comprehend eternity with only a pocket watch. It simply couldn't be done.
But he was determined to try.
One of the cattle wandered up to him while he contemplated his corner of the universe. It blinked at him with its large doe eyes and bellowed, a soft, low sound, and without thinking he lifted his hand and lightly scratched its chin. It loudly exhaled through its nose as it closed its eyes and wagged its stubby tail back and it were a cat, it might have just purred.
"Now ain't this a pretty picture."
A sudden voice, one as rough as the gravel Zack stood on, had him glancing over his shoulder. A large man was striding up to him. The newcomer wore a hat with studs pinned into the leather band, a glossy badge pinned onto his cotton shirt, and patches sewn into the knees of his pants. He was also tall enough that Zack had to tilt his chin up to meet his dark eyes, something that was more than a little disconcerting. That didn't happen very often.
But all of that – the badge, the fancy hat, the height difference – was forgotten the moment Zack noticed the man's prosthetic right arm. It was an impressive beast. While most false limbs were flimsy things designed to assist movement and not snap in half, this one had been clearly designed to be a weapon. The metal hand included brass knuckles and a dexterous thumb. The wooden forearm included an indent in the distinct shape of a gun barrel. The hilt of a knife protruded out of the elbow.
Noticing Zack's admiration, the man grinned wickedly and said, "The pinky is also a knife." He promptly showed Zack by popping the digit off like a cork, and Zack nodded sagely as if he saw this type of thing every day. Internally, he had to admit that he was rather jealous. He wanted his pinky to turn into a knife.
"You must be Mayor Wallace," Zack greeted, and offered his hand.
The mayor grasped the hand with his prosthetic and shook. His grip was strong, and the metal was cold and sharp against Zack's palm. "The one an' only. And you must be Zack Fair, I reckon."
"Yes sir." One of the cattle in the field bellowed long and low. "I heard that you'd like to purchase the herd from Cloud. Cloud Strife," Zack clarified.
"That's right." Wallace glanced out towards the pasture, where a second cow hollered at the first, and soon their cries rose up as a clashing orchestra. "Not sure if you've been made aware, but our small minin' town has been eager to build a railroad stretchin' east, towards Costa del Sol. The men workin' the railroad need ta eat, and your herd would be a might big help on that front."
Zack felt that earlier twinge again, that feeling similar to throwing a pebble against a window or kicking a clod of dirt down the road. The pebble were the ideas he hoped would wake up an epiphany; the dirt was the thoughts he kicked down the dusty road of his mind. Everything orbited the perpetual sun of:What will I do without the cattle? How should he spend his days? Should he sit by the window and wait for something new, or should he turn the land for crops he might not grow? Should he repair fences that didn't need it? Should he redo the roof he had redone last year? Should he pick up his pistol, his lasso, and become a Ranger all over again?
But then the answer came to him, as swift and breathless as a punch to the gut:
They hadn't prepared a room for the baby yet.
Zack heard a distant snap as a wire short circuited in his brain. He felt like he had taken a swig of a canteen but had gotten whiskey instead of water. There was the initial surprise. The choking, sputtering cough as his body rejected it. The acidic burn that scorched his throat and watered his eyes. But then, like all good whiskey, the realization eventually went down smooth.
"Fine by me," Zack finally replied. There was something bittersweet in his expression. "But don't tell my wife. She'd be heartbroken."
Wallace glanced at him side-eyed. "She the type that sees the livestock as pets?"
"Somethin' like that."
"I see." Wallace scratched the stubble on his chin, and his gaze went distant; not distant in the sense that he had turned towards the mountains or the horizon, but inwardly distant, focused towards something only he could see. "My daughter – she turned four this year – sees livestock the same way. We have a pet hen now, as she threw a mighty fuss when I was gonna kill it for dinner after it stopped layin' eggs. Now it follows her around the house like a damn dog." He barked a laugh, and the sound was nearly as rough as his voice. "Can you imagine? A chicken. Actin' like a dog! Even eats out of a bowl an' sits on yer lap, all content-like."
"Even in the house?"
"Especially in the house," Wallace affirmed with a grimace. "Shits everywhere, might I add. But unfortunately for me, my daughter is more stubborn than I am. Screams louder, too," he added, then turned to Zack with a wry grin. "Pick your battles, eh?"
"Pick your battles," Zack agreed. Now that was a sentiment he certainly stand beside. "My wife an' I have been raisin' these cattle from birth, so she'll be relieved to know that they'll be well taken care of before what needs to be done."
"Of course they will," he stated, but then his expression suddenly grew serious. It was such a drastic shift that his entire face had to rearrange itself to accommodate its new severity. "I didn't think you'd even make it to Corel, truth be told. Few more days an' I would have sent one of my men out ta one of the other towns for supplies."
This news had Zack pausing. "Why?"
The mayor didn't answer right away, but when he did speak, his voice echoed the gravity of his expression. "Tell me honest," he said. "Did ya run into any trouble on yer ride here? Or see anything unusual – abandoned campsites, cold campfires, or anythin' of that sort?"
"Nothin' like that," Zack said. "It was a quiet ride. Didn't even lose any of the cattle."
Wallace's eyebrows rose at that. "Didn't lose a single one?"
"No, sir. Not a one."
"Truly." Wallace rubbed a hand along his stumble. "Well, you're either two of the luckiest sons of bitches to ride these parts, or yer lyin'."
Zack's eyes flashed. "I ain't a liar."
"I ain't sayin' that." Wallace raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Just.. listen for a second. There's a group of highwaymen campin' out somewhere in the mountains pickin' off anyone who enters that way, and as sheriff, it's my business to know who makes it through or not."
"I thought you were the mayor," Zack said. "Not the sheriff."
"It's a small town," Wallace replied. "We ain't got a sheriff, so I hired myself. You know the sayin': if you want it done right, you ought to do it yourself." He shot Zack a cagey grin before he sobered. "It's nothin' personal. Jus' thought that I'd ask, particularly since yer friend Strife made it back an' forth twice now with not even a blister to show for it. But," he added with a shrug, "perhaps he's just a brave bastard ridin' side by side with lady luck."
But Zack had stopped paying attention halfway through, because that wasn't quite true, was it? Cloud did get injured. He got punched in the face, and still sported the bruise. Something had happened in the mountains, something Cloud wasn't telling him, and the more Zack thought about it, the more sure he became. A dark door groaned open within him, and an icy breeze pushed its way through. The midday sun went cold.
"No," Zack finally said. "That's not true."
"What ain't true?"
"That Cloud rides with lady luck. There was an incident in the mountains," Zack slowly explained. Wallace perked up; his dark eyes brightened to the color of 20 Black Bowmore whiskey. "It happened during the night, when I was sleepin'. He left camp and got hit. Said that he fell," Zack admitted, "but I know the difference between fallin' on your ass and gettin' your mug bashed in."
"I see. Was it bad?"
"Bad?"
"The injury," Wallace clarified.
Zack thought back to Cloud's bruise – to its molted watercolor of red, greens, and blues, and how just how close the dark smear was to his eye. He said, "Could have been worse."
"I see." Wallace made a sound low in his throat, something between an affirmation and a dark hum. "And where," he said delicately, "is Strife now?"
"He's out buyin' supplies." The reply was immediate, but doubt had already settled in Zack's gut like a stone. "We're plannin' on ridin' back home tomorrow, and needed a few more things for the journey. So he's out gettin' us some staples: dried goods, beans, and such." They were all reasonable statements. Sensible, in fact. And yet there was something off about them too: a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.
"Is he really?" Wallace asked.
"He is," Zack replied, but it sounded too much like a lie. "So tell me 'bout these outlaws of yours," he said, changing the subject while idly kicking a piece of gravel that had been resting by his boot, which bounced down the dusty road. "D'you know where they came from?"
Wallace's expression pitched into a scowl. "Truth be told, I don't know much. I've only found their burnt campfires – haven't actually gotten sight of them, mind you, so I don't know what they look like. That said," he continued with arms crossed, "our little town got a notice from Midgar shortly before the highwaymen began inhabiting the mountains."
"Midgar?"
"Midgar," Wallace affirmed. "The notice highlighted that Sephiroth Simmel, along with three other men, escaped from the Midgar prison."
Zack whistled. "Did they really."
"Apparently." Wallace's tone was low and gravely, like wagon wheels churning against gravel. "I myself can't figure out how they managed to do so. But they did, and the Midgar authorities have warned that Simmel and the others were heading west. Towards us," he clarified.
"Why?"
"I ain't got the foggiest notion." Once again, Wallace ran a hand along his stubble. "Damn shame of that, too. If this small town can capture a runaway Simmel and turn 'im back in to Midgar, then this piece of land wouldn't have to worry about stayin' afloat with the mine or the railroad. With the reward, we'd be mighty well off."
Reward. The word pinged against Zack's consciousness, and he licked his lips. "Any bounty hunters arrive in town?" he asked.
"Jus' one: a silver-haired man who's stayin' at the inn." Zack's hummed; he recalled seeing a man like that this very morning. "But more will be comin'. There'll be a rush west," Wallace continued matter-of-factly. "Everyone wants a piece of a Simmel."
"An' you think Sephiroth Simmel is the one hunkerin' down in the Corel mountains," Zack replied. It wasn't a question.
"That's right." Wallace's expression went stoney, and when he glanced towards Zack, his eyes were lit with a dark glow. "You be careful on your ride back tomorrow. An' keep an eye on Strife, too," he added after a pause. "I've got a bad feelin' about it all."
Zack shifted his weight to his other foot, his expression grim. "I will."
"Good." Wallace nodded, and then gestured vaguely towards the cattle. "Now, back to the matter at hand..."
There was the promise of rain on the horizon. The distant mountain range was pillowed with heavy clouds, and their jagged crowns were pearled with fine mist. They rumbled to one another. They clashed in sudden flashes of light and dark. The sky morphed into a mosaic of black and blue and became a ceiling of hurt; a watercolor weeping across a page; a day-old bruise with no ice to soothe it.
But all was quiet on the Strife property. It wasn't quiet in the sense that thunder wasn't cracking and the sky wasn't screaming, but in the sense that the crickets weren't humming and the birds weren't singing. The grain didn't brush together to mimic the hum of rain. Not even a stray breeze dared rustle the leaves of the old oak tree, as if the wild wind was afraid to disturb the apprehension that weighed on the land, the tension that choked the air.
There might not have been a storm dangling directly above the Strife property yet, but that was the thing about storms: you didn't have to see them to feel the thunder, and the sky could be blue even on the worst of days.
Today was one of those days. The oppression was rubber-band stretched to breaking, and the world held its breath as it waited for it to snap.
Gravel crunched beneath Tifa's boots as she stepped out of her home and off her porch with Aerith close behind. Her gun was cold in her hand and her knife, hidden in her sleeve, left indents against her skin, but she did not notice. She was only aware of Loz's slitted eyes as he tracked her movements, and how his blood-stained smile reminded her of broken glass and bullet fragments.
Tifa wrinkled her nose in disgust to mask her trembling. Her stomach curdled as she took another step forward. All she wanted to do was turn around, run back inside, lock the door behind her, and never open it for a stranger again, hospitality be damned. But if she did that… well, she wouldn't get the answers she wanted, now would she?
She slowly exhaled, steeling herself. He might be a devil, she reminded herself, but I can be far worse.
The world continued to hold its breath.
"Good mornin'," Loz drawled with a sneer. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
He managed to sound sharp despite his fat lip. Aerith stiffened; Tifa stood a little straighter and said, "I have some questions for you. And you'll be answerin' them."
It was such a bold statement, and stated with such venom, that Tifa was half surprised Loz didn't keel over right there. Instead he laughed, a broken sound that rapidly descended into wet, rasping chuckles. "And why the hell should I do that?" he asked.
"Because if you don't, I'll do this," Tifa replied, and with the flick of her wrist, snapped her knife into her hand and threw it between his legs. It sunk deep into the soft soil. "Start talking," she ordered as the knife's hilt warbled from the force of her throw. "Or I'll cut them off."
Aerith meaningfully pumped her shotgun, and added, "And I'll shoot them off."
It was quite the threat: two petite women, one stunningly pregnant, holding weapons as large as their arms with their dark promise written within their eyes.
Then Loz said, "I knew it was worth stayin' here for the night." He said it casually, as if he had stayed the night at the inn instead of spending it tied against a tree with lead embedded in his bloody chest. "But fine – I'll answer your questions. You can think of it as a reward for beatin' me," he added with a jagged grin. He leaned back, and the rope groaned. "That sort of thing don't happen very often, you know."
"I'm sure," Tifa replied coolly. But internally, she was furious. Reward for beating me, she mentally repeated, and her finger twitched against the trigger. You beat people at card games or sport matches; you survive when someone breaks into your home and hunts you down like an animal. And that's exactly what she did. She didn't win; she survived.
"But," Loz continued, interrupting her thoughts, "if I'm ta be answering' your questions, then I want to ask a question of my own. But just one."
The distant sky cracked with sudden lightning. "Like?" Tifa asked.
Loz's smile – that hateful, loathing smile – widened. "You first."
His statement cracked against the ground, and Aerith glanced at Tifa with a hesitant expression. But Tifa was staring straight ahead. There was something unmovable about her in that moment, something defiant and dangerous in the dark glow of her carmen eyes.
"Fine," Tifa finally replied. Her expression was akin to someone staring down a firing squad and saying, Don't miss. "As long as we have an understanding."
"Agreed."
Thunder rumbled across a bruised sky.
"Who are you?" Tifa demanded.
He rolled out his shoulders, saying"Loz. But you already knew that." One shoulder cracked with a wet pop, and fresh blood bubbled onto his ruined shirt. He didn't even wince.
Tifa forced her expression to remain neutral even as her stomach flipped. "You're Loz Simmel," she stated. To her credit, her voice remained even. "You're the younger Simmel brother."
As if on cue, the sky grew dark. Gray clouds choked the sun and smothered the world in shadow. For a moment, no one spoke. Loz only watched her with those unnaturally slitted eyes as the silence stretched between them… and the rubber-band corner of his lips slashed upward.
"Is that what you think?" he asked.
His voice was barely more than a midnight whisper, and yet his question hit Tifa like the crack of a whip. She blinked, stunned; even Aerith, who remained on guard beside her, seemed taken aback.
Tifa straightened her back, demanding,"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I don't hail from that messed up family, and I'm damn proud of that fact. So no, I ain't a Simmel." But then Loz leaned forward, his eyes flashing in the midday glow, and added with surgical precision, "But your husband sure is."
His statement had the same effect as a gunshot, and even the distant storm went still as his words cracked against the sky. She could smell the gunsmoke on his breath as he watched the emotions flickering across her face – bafflement, surprise, denial, horror, the fragile What if, the stubborn That's impossible – and in that instant, that tiny gasp, she became a prism through which heartbreak could be seen in its infinite spectrum.
"Bull shit," Tifa told him.
"Is it?" Lozshot back.
The resulting silence was broken only by onslaught of rain.
The art of lock-picking came easily to Cloud. Personally, he thought that it wasn't nearly as complex as people made it out to be. Locks were much like a person, in the sense that if you wanted to learn how they worked, you first had to pick them apart to see how they broke. If you wanted to master them, you had to understand the process so well that you could put them back together again. And Cloud had. In his previous life, he had mastered the art of lock-picking to the point where he could fix a broken lock blindfolded.
But that was where his mastery ended, because putting a lock back together was one thing. But a person? He still hadn't figured that one out. Maybe one day he would, but later. Much later. Right now, he had other things on his mind… like breaking into the mayor's office and robbing the poor man blind.
Mayor Wallace's office was a small building situated against the sandstone cliffs that the town of Corel leaned on. Its shabby porch fought for supremacy against the dusty road, its wooden sign dangled on a single hinge, and its glass windows were smudged with a thick layer of dust. Things were same around the back of the building as well, in the sense that every aspect of it seemed to be falling apart. Clearly, the mayor hadn't invested much in the way of sturdy infrastructure.
But the mayor had invested in a solid lock.
Cloud twisted the modified Farrier's knife within the back door's keyhole, his jaw locked in a grimace and sweat pricking his brow. Shiva's tits, he cursed as the pick slipped. He had forgotten how much he hated lock-picking, even if the process was rapidly coming back to him. This lock in particular had a grating personality; its cylinder was a maze of odd protrusions, nooks, and crannies, all of which were meant to confuse the hand. But it wasn't quite complex enough, and eventually he heard a satisfying click as the door unlocked.
He pushed down on the handle, and the door opened with such a shrieking groan that he winced, his toes curling within his boots. He hated that sound, that piercing, unhinged moan of metal grinding against metal. It sent his nerves sparking and stomach curdling, and his hands remained clammy even after he had carefully closed and locked the door behind him. He wiped them against his pants as he entered the mayor's main office, his leather-padded boots soundless against the floor. Everything shook within him. He was a nervous rattle of muscle and bone and sinew.
He was tired.
But that wasn't quite right – feeling tired would mean that he felt anything at all, and he refused himself that luxury. Not right now. He had become something else entirely when he crossed the mayor's threshold; not human but creature, something unfeeling and equally unloving, something that thrived on bones and bullets and broken things. He became the crow that feasted on the carrion. He became the thing that swooped down to take what little remained. He became the final bell before the ground gave way and a neck snapped within a noose.
He became Cloud Simmel.
Or at least, that's what he told himself as he made his way to the mayor's desk. Simmel, Simmel, Simmel. The word echoed within his mind. He thought that if he reminded himself of who he once was, then this whole thing would become easier. Maybe his guilty conscience would fade back into the forgotten recesses of his mind, the dark ache gnawing within him would lessen for a while, and then he could finally breathe. That's all he wanted, a brief pause so he could catch his breath, and then he could keep going… At least, for a little while longer.
Except, the more he tried to convince himself, the more obvious it became that he wasn't Cloud Simmel. Not anymore. Cloud Simmel died in the desert five years ago, and what had emerged out of that shallow grave was a broken man named Cloud Strife. And that man was tired. Exhaustion became the sand within the oyster, the grit that cut, grated, and tore until it was smoothed with lacquer and transformed into a pearl.
But it wasn't a pearl just yet. Maybe one day it would be, when he could retell this moment and make something grand of it. That's how the best songs were written, after all; when the worst was over and all was said and done, songs turned stars into diamonds, blood into rubies, and pain into mountains made to be overcome.
But right now, stars were just stars. Blood was just blood. Pain was just pain.
And he was just tired.
He swept his gaze across the room. The mayor's office looked the same as in every other town, with an obvious exception: Wallace's office also doubled as the town jail, and the brick-and-iron cells lined the far wall while the desk sat away from them, the chair swiveled backwards as if in contemplation. The blinds were closed, but muffled light seeped between their faded fabric and spilled across the papers piled on the desk, most of which were escaping the large pile to throw themselves at the floor. Some of the papers were wanted posters, but there were also other things shuffled within the yellowed parchment: notices from other towns, trading deals, land purchase announcements. Things that made Cloud's eyes glaze to look over.
So he got to work.
As it turned out, Cloud not only remembered how to pick a lock: he also remembered how to rob, and he was still stunningly good at it. The desk was the most likely place valuables would be stored – particularly, the jail key and the five thousand gil that Sephiroth had demanded – so he checked there first. Drawers were soundlessly opened and their contents pilfered as he checked for false bottoms. A strongbox the size of his first was hidden within a bag of sweets, and he made quick work opening it… and was rewarded with the jail key, an ugly iron thing nearly as dark as his humor.
He stuffed it in his pocket before continuing to work. He had nearly made it to the bottommost drawer when, at that exact moment his fingertips brushed the brass handle, the front door sharply rattled.
In the breath of silence that followed, all Cloud could hear was his blood pounding in his ears. The dark spell he had found himself in had broken. It suddenly occurred to him that he was robbing an innocent man; and when the door rattled again, firmer now, and it also occurred to him that it didn't matter what he called himself – Cloud Simmel, Cloud Strife, or some other name –because the fact remained that he was committing a felony. Not only that, but he was stealing from the mayor. In the span of minutes, he had essentially become an outlaw.
In a moment of crushing clarity, all he could do was stare at the door and wonder: How can I go home now?
With his next breath he threw himself underneath the desk. The key felt heavy in his pocket, a burning confession, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the door rattled for a third time. His breath whistled soundlessly between his teeth. His throat tightened, and he suddenly felt like laughing. Is this my life now? He knew how the sham worked; this entire robbery was just Sephiroth's way of testing him, to see if he was still capable of getting the job done. The next task Sephiroth would assign – and there would be a next – would be harder. So it would go on, until Cloud was so weighed down by bounties and secrets that he could no longer say no.
We're gonna stick together, Sephiroth had once declared when they had been younger, drunk on stolen wine, and camping beneath a ceiling of stars. We'll protect each other, no matter what. Back them, Cloud had slurred his agreement, and they had drunk to that pact all night.
To this day, wine still soured his gut.
He dimly heard the person's muted footsteps as they walked away, and he allowed himself the brief pleasure of a muffled curse before he slowly rolled onto his side. There had been something sharp and uncomfortable protruding into his hip, and after a brief inspection he could see why: the floorboards were uneven here, their edges jagged, as if they were meant to pulled apart.
A trap door, he realized. He slowly removed one of the scuffed planks with trembling fingers. A small hollow waited beneath, one filled with a sizable black safe, and his stomach dropped. This is where the five thousand gil would be waiting, and for one desperate, frenzied moment, he wished he had never found it. He wished Mayor Wallace wasn't so damn predictable and chose better hiding spots.
But he cracked it open anyway, with one ear pressed against its dark walls and fingers slowly working the gear, because he needed the money. Not for himself, but for bribery. Sephiroth knew who Tifa was, knew where they lived, knew what she meant to him. He'd enjoy hurting her.
The thought made him see red, and he accidentally twisted the gear too far. He swore, something colorful he had heard a long time ago, and started over, but soon he had the safe opened. The first thing he did was grab the large stack of gil inside of it, and after pulling off their bands, shoved the paper bills into his shirt. There was no helping their rustling sound when he moved, but he made a mental note to hum or whistle when he walked – at least then he'd sound half cheerful. As for everything else in the safe – namely, an antique watch and silver locket – he left them behind. He didn't need them, and Sephiroth sure as hell didn't need them either,
After re-locking the safe and slipping it back into its hollow, he pulled the floorboards flush on top and tidied the desk, putting everything back exactly as it was. He had nearly turned back towards the back door, when his attention was snagged a newspaper clipping resting on the chair. Very aware of the seconds ticking by, he briefly scanned the Midgar Herald newspaper announcement:
New ! Strange creature unearthed beneath the Midgar Max-Security Prison. The unidentified monster has been taken to the Shinra Electric Company's Executive Laboratories for further testing. Professor Hojo has not been available to provide further comment, but rumors suggest that the creature is associated with a recent phenomena of hys …
Cloud stopped reading to glance at the date etched into the paper's corner. It was dated nearly three months ago, which struck him at significant, somehow. But he promptly decided that he didn't care, and tore his eyes from the paper. Instead, he made his way towards the back door again, his shirt full of cash and his pocket heavy with the jail key.
The final click of the door as he left weighed heavily upon him as he made his way to the grocery store down the road – partly because he and Zack did need provisions, but mostly because he needed an alibi. He whistled as walked, not the cheerful tune he had been hoping for, but something a little more melancholy. Inside, he was disgusted with him himself. He was disgusted at how flimsy his new life was. He was disgusted at how easily everything fell apart; all it took was a single punch and threat, and his entire world was spun out of orbit. He was untethered once again.
No, not yet, he corrected himself. His boots flattened the dirt as his thoughts flung themselves towards a particular woman with carmen eyes and a laugh that reminded him of stars. Not yet. All was not lost; he still remembered how to fight.
But, gods, was he tired.
A bell jingled as he entered the grocery store, and the owner greeted him with a lazy, "G'day." It wasn't, but Cloud echoed the sentiment anyway as he began the tedious process that was shopping. He grabbed a box of crackers first, just to have something to blame for all the rustling as he then grabbed the rest of the provisions: dried fruit, jerky, coffee, a couple cans of beans. He almost added a small bar of chocolate as well, if only because he was still bitter about letting Aerith's chocolate melt in his bag and was craving something sweet, but he quickly shook himself of the notion. He wasn't a child. He didn't need chocolate to be soothed.
"That be all?" the owner asked when Cloud set the goods down on the counter.
Cloud fished for his wallet. "Yes, sir."
There was a pause, and then, "You get into a fight or somethin'?"
"I..." Cloud looked up, eyebrows knit together. "Excuse me?"
"Your face." The other man glanced meaningfully at Cloud's cheek. "Nasty bruise there, son. Someone get th' best of you?"
A small, bitter smile tugged at Cloud's lips. "Something like that," he replied, and then added because that sounded far too close to the truth, "Don't play cards against a man that has nothing to lose. You don't win nothin' but trouble."
The other man started, then barked a laugh. He laughed like a gunshot – a loud bang followed by a wheezing breath. "Ain't that the truth," he said as exchanged the goods for Cloud's gil. "I hope he didn't take yer money too, after wallopin' you like that."
"Nah," Cloud managed with a wry grin. "I didn't have much to lose, either."
The owner laughed again, so loudly that Cloud was half surprised the windows didn't shatter on his walk back to the door. "Have a good one," the man called as Cloud's hand rested on the handle, and then added, "I hope your luck turns around."
Me too. But Cloud only smiled again, crooked and sad, and offered the man a goodbye tip of his hat as the door creaked shut behind him.
He was just deciding where to dump the cash – at the stables or in his rented room – when a shoulder suddenly slammed into his. It was a hard enough blow that it had him stumbling, but before he could react, something was shoved into his hand. It was accompanied by a serpentine voice: "Sephiroth sends his regards."
Cloud's heart just about stopped right then. He whirled, hand snapping for the pistol strapped to his thigh on instinct, yet nobody was there. The street was empty. Impossible, he thought, wide-eyed, but there was no denying it. Only the dirt moved along the ground. How? A sign rattled above him; a nearby roof groaning beneath the weight of the sky. Impossible, he thought again. He should have seen somebody. His reflexes weren't that dull, and people didn't move that quick.
And yet he realized, as if all over again, that the road was well and truly empty. He waited a moment, and then he waited two He became acutely aware of the drawn-out spaces between his shallow breathes, and after a long while of waiting to get shot and having his expectations dashed, he resigned himself to checking the note.
His gaze flicked across the crisp, looping cursive. Tonight. The old well. I'll be waiting. And then, scrawled along the bottom: I'll be watching.
Cloud's lips formed a thin line. Sephiroth, he knew. Something shifted deep within him then, but it didn't feel like fear. Instead, it felt taut. It sparked inside of him like an electric wire over a pool of water, bucked like a flimsy window latched tight against a storm, hurtled itself against his walls like a bird against a screen. It was chaotic. It had nowhere to go. It left him feeling like nothing in life was real except for this moment, this note, this notion that nothing would ever be the same again.
He wasn't tired any longer.
He slipped the note into his pocket and stalked down the road. His hat shadowed his expression and darkened the blue of his eyes until they no longer were fragments of the sky but something far colder – pieces of glacial ice, the deep dark of the ocean, the twilit spaces between the stars – and he knew:
Sephiroth n eeds to die .
His hands tightened into fists even as his stomach twisted itself into knots.
Not go back to prison, but die .
And he, beyond any measure of doubt, was going to be the one to do it.
Yeahhhhh sorry about all of those cliffhangers... Please don't yell at me i'm fragile
Anyway, I'm hoping to get the next chapter around Mid-March? That's the goal anyway, but it really depends on how quickly I can write & edit the next Halcyon Days chapter. :) But! If you'd like writing updates and story previews, feel free to follow my twitter at Rand0mSmil3z - everything gets posted there first :)
Until next time, have a wonderful rest of your day / week / month, and I wish you all nothing but the best :)
